


There is Still Power in the Pack

by kittykatknits



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Sex Spell, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Old Gods Magic, Post-Canon, R plus L equals J, Smut, sex spell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 02:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11545170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittykatknits/pseuds/kittykatknits
Summary: Many believe magic has left the world and perhaps it is true. For Jon and Sansa, the wolves are gone and their pack is no longer whole. Yet, there is still power in the Winterfell godswood, and when they pray, the old gods listen. And sometimes, they act.This is basically a long-needed fix to a horrible mistake the show made.





	There is Still Power in the Pack

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mix of both book and show canon.

The war was over, the Starks once again ruled the north and Winterfell. Sansa was home, her family all about her, and yet, the joy she had long sought eluded her. One brother refused the lordship while the other was still so young, dependent upon her and her husband to rule in his stead. Arya, filled by anger, and loss in her own way. They were together, yet they were not yet a pack. Sansa did not know if it was the loss of their wolves or if the passage of time had left scars so deeply embedded within each of them. Her own ache though, Sansa knew its source, she confronted it every day at meal times, at every council meeting, and every night as she lay in her cold bed.

It was moments such as these, she thought, with a trace of bitterness, the fates had given her all she had once dreamed of but it amounted to nothing at all.

They sat across from each other at her desk, sheets of parchment between them, missives from their bannermen and household accounts to review. It was a daily ritual, meeting to discuss the household and the north, before parting ways to see to their individual tasks. Every time, Jon sat stiff and awkward in his seat, his discomfort in her presence so very plain to see.

Some days, she imagined his hand strayed a bit to close to hers, or that his gaze lingered a touch to long when he looked at her. On rare occasions, Sansa thought he leaned in to her when they spoke. But, she would blink, and the illusion would disappear, to be replaced with the reality of their marriage. Jon would be as he always was, formal and distant.

This meeting between them was no different than all the ones before it. No doubt, it would be the same as all those to come after.

Their discussions done and decisions made, Jon rose to leave. “Until this evening.”

Sansa stood abruptly, her chair scraping along the stone floor in her haste. “My lord.” She swallowed, no other words were prepared. It was an instinct that drove her to speak. “Enjoy your time in the training yard.”

Jon’s breath grew deep and rapid, she could see the rise and fall of his chest, even with the distance between them. His right hand flexed and drew into a fist. He said nothing, giving a tilt of his chin before leaving her presence.

He would go to the training yard immediately after leaving her, as he always did. Jon was cold with her yet he came to life with a sword in his hand. Every day, he fought against opponents, sometimes two or three at a time, with a fierceness and vigor that she had yet to experience. Finally, spent, he would disappear to the godswood before resuming his duty as acting Lord Paramount of the North.

Sansa continued her work, answering letters, until their maester brought a scroll, the wax seal unbroken, newly arrived from White Harbor. She sighed, Jon would wish to read it, if it contained the news they looked for.  

Pulling on her cloak, Sansa left her rooms, crossing the courtyard before walking through the main iron gate into the Winterfell godswood. Immediately, the dense canopy of oaks, ash, and pine covered her, hiding the sun away. Sansa walked towards the heart tree, the crunch of her boots against the hard earth beneath her occasionally broken by patches of moss and  humus. The godswood was an ancient place, the castle itself had grown up around it. Sansa always felt the presence of the old gods within these woods, to enter was to draw them to her, to listen to her words and cast judgment on her deeds.

Jon rested where she knew he would be, his back against one of the great roots of the heart tree, Long Claw in his hands. If he took notice of her presence, no acknowledgement was given. She studied him, still clad in the brown training jerken from that day’s session, his cloak thrown beside him. The curls by his ear and along his hairline were damp. His left cheek had a streak of dirt on it.

“My lord.” She waited for a response, but heard nothing. “A raven has just arrived from White Harbor.”

Jon did not glance up. “What does it say?” He spoke with disinterest, his focus on the sword across his knees. One hand clasped the hilt, the other cleaned the blade, the strokes slow and even. It made Sansa think of a lover’s caress.

She broke the seal, reading the contents. “The glass and builders are newly arrived from Braavos.” The rebuilding of Winterfell had proven a cumbersome endeavor. The glass gardens were still a ruin, the cost and complexity of repairs had delayed their creation.

“Good.” He did not look away from his sword.

Sansa gazed  up into the gray-green sentinels covering her from above and at the tree’s needles that lay by her feet. She closed her eyes, breathing deep, smelling the old earth, the history, the north. A snow began to fall, a light spring snow. The white flakes fell, landing on the grey velvet and wool of her gown. Stark colors in the Winterfell godswood, the gods were listening to her.

She crumpled the parchment in her hand and stared at Jon, the man she called husband. She stared and he looked to his sword. A madness seized her, she threw the parchment at him, watching as it landed between his legs. “You are not a good husband,” she bit out.

Jon’s body stilled, the hand on the blade drawing away, yet he kept his silence.

“You are not a good husband,” she repeated once more. “I did not ask for this marriage, I did not force it on you. Yet, you deny me comfort, you deny me companionship, you deny me any future happiness. You give only coldness and indifference. You may be a great hero and a great man, but you are not a good husband.” Sansa made no effort to hide the enmity in her words. “Do you wish to know what truly angers me? You still have your wolf, you still have Ghost. Ours our dead, all gone, sacrifices over the years. Yet, you, Jon Snow, the man who shows me in word and deed, every day, that he does not wish to be here, you have Ghost. The gods are truly cruel, are they not?”

She turned to leave him. It had felt good to speak but she felt curiously empty as well. As a child, Sansa had loved the stories of chivalry and romance. Love was instant, it was all consuming. Time and King’s Landing had taught her different. Sansa could remember her mother explaining marriage and love to her once, so very long ago, it was built slowly, stone by stone. That sort of love had less of the romance to it but it was stronger and more lasting. She had not married Jon for love, no more than he had, it was the order of his aunt in the south. But, the voice of her mother had whispered to her, had reminded her of that long ago advice. Sansa had listened, she had tried only for Jon to teach her another cruel lesson. A marriage built stone by stone was only possible when both husband and wife tried.

“Do not walk away.” There was an edge to his voice, and something else she could not identify.

Sansa lifted her boot, her foot wavering ever so slightly, as she decided what to do. Slowly, she placed it back on the ground, waiting.

“I grieve for our wolves too, Sansa, for them and all we have lost. If I could, I would bring Lady back for you. The same for Bran and Arya and Rickon. I would beg the gods for it, if I thought it could be done. You direct your anger at the wrong target.” He grew quiet and she could hear the rustle of fabric and the rub of leather as he drew himself to his feet. “As to the rest, Sansa, if you think me indifferent, if you think me unfeeling, then you are truly a bigger fool than I thought. Will you turn and face me?”

She did not.

“Please, face me.” A plaintive note entered his voice then.

Sansa acquiesced, turning to look upon him, her skirts swinging ever so slightly with her movements. Jon stood only a few paces from her. He took off his gloves, throwing them to his feet, before raising his right hand, flexing and drawing it into a fist as had so recently done in her solar. She could see the smooth skin of his burns.

“I am no fool, Jon Snow” she said, sharply, drawing out each word carefully. It was a lie, Sansa had let herself believe she could make him love her, for far too long before giving up hope. Perhaps it was more foolish hope that made her speak that day, she did not know.

“A blind woman then,” he sighed.

Foolish, indeed. “I hope the gods provide the counsel you seek, my lord.” Her tone implied differently. She began to leave, walking against the edge of the black pool.

He blocked her path. “You accuse me of much and listen to nothing. Sit.” Taking note of her expression, Jon spoke again. “Allow me the chance to explain, Sansa.” he said quietly. He was sincere.

She followed him back to the heart tree, ignoring his offered cloak. She stood, facing the stern face of the weirwood, gently tracing the outline of its features with her finger. A few drops of blood red sap leaked from the eyes. Sansa swiped at it, licking the bitter substance from her finger.

Jon only stared at her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. His face drew into a grimace as his nostrils flared. Sansa would call his expression angry if it were not for the sweet sound of his voice when he spoke. “Despite appearances, I have never been indifferent to you, believe me. The circumstances of our marriage, I knew it was cruel so I kept my distance. It was all I knew to give you.”

She drew her eyes closed, shutting them tight. “Did you not think to ask what I might want?”

“I...no. I’m sorry.”

The tips of his fingers stroked along the edge of her jaw, the skin roughened from his hours of sword training. Sansa drew her eyes open in shock. He had drawn closer, his face almost touching her own. “Perhaps you should have.”

“Perhaps I was the fool.” His voice was low and rough.

“Perhaps you were,” she whispered.

A breeze came on them, lifting the strands of her hair, tickling her skin. Above them, she could hear the gentle creak of a weirwood branch as it moved. A red leaf fell, slowly falling to the ground between them.

“Sansa.” He had never spoken her name in such a way before.

She nodded, she wanted too. It was enough, he moved, almost slamming into her, pushing her against the tree as their lips met. His kiss was hard and unrelenting, desperate. Sansa wanted more. “Hurry.” She almost moaned the word, letting their breath mingle.

He lifted her. “Put your legs around me.” His voice made her think of the sharp sound of a blade against a whetstone. He made her shiver.

She clung to him, felt the smooth white wood against her back. A part of her realized he was untying his breeches, pulling them low on his hips, another part was lost in the waves of desire running through her body. His hand began a climb up her leg and thigh. Sansa hissed.

“Hurry,” she ordered.

Jon pulled at the ties of her small clothes, tugging at them until they fell away. Then, suddenly, he moved, filling her with the long, thick length of him. Her breath hitched as her head fell back against the tree. He began to thrust, faster and faster, growing frantic in his urgency. Their eyes met, their gazes locked. He began to grunt as he lost himself. Sansa moaned, pleading, pulling him against her.

“I have wanted you,” she cooed into his ear. “For so long.”

Jon roared before stilling. He gave a final thrust, spilling his seed into her. He shivered before his face fell against the side of her neck, hidden by the locks of her hair. Sansa held him against her, a finger tracing the hairline by his neck.

He slowly let her down. “I’m not sorry.”

“Nor am I.” It was the truth. “Jon...will you…” Sansa could not bring herself to ask, afraid of his answer, not quite ready to let herself hope once more.

He knew.  “Tonight.” He kissed her again. It was gentle this time, lacking the urgency of earlier but no less pleasurable.

Sansa did not know what else to say. “Tonight,” she echoed. She hoped it sounded like a promise.

Jon stayed by the heart tree, watching Sansa as she departed. He picked up the small clothes she left behind, they were his now. As soon as she disappeared, he turned his focus towards the white tree next to him. He got to his knees before it, bowing his head in silent prayer.

He could not say how long he lingered, whether a minute or an hour. A bird began to chirp above him. Jon rose, meeting the cold, stern face of the tree. It weeped red tears. “I would bring back all of the wolves, if I could, if only to give her a moment of joy. Let us find our happiness together, I beg you.”

No answer was given, only the rustling of leaves and a bird’s song. Jon left, leaving the heart tree and the thick mass of sentinels, hawthorns, and ash behind. His steps were silent as he walked through the iron gate and back into the activity and life of Winterfell.

The day passed slowly, he did not see Sansa until they sat together on the dais at supper. There was much to be said between them, but it would wait. There was a tension between them, an aching push and pull. He reveled in it. He hoped.

After the meal and his final tasks for the evening were completed, Jon made his way towards her solar, opening the door to her bedchamber and barring it behind them. He would not suffer any visitors that night.

Sansa stood by her bed, clad in a blue silk robe. Her hair flowed down her back and over one shoulder. The bright auburn shone in the candlelight, copper, fire, and bright autumn leaves. Jon did not know if she was bare under her robe, he dearly hoped so. He had only been in her bed chamber once before, her evening habits were unfamiliar to him.

They faced each other, unspeaking. Jon sensed a reticence from her, she was afraid to trust in them. The realization pained him.

“I am not indifferent,” he said, breaking the silence, repeating the words from earlier.  “Do you wish to know what I dream of?”

“Yes.”

Jon did his best to recall what she had said to him in the godswood. Every word she’d spoken had torn at him. “I wish for you, for comfort and companionship. It was never my intent to cause you pain, I hope you know that.”

Sansa pulled at the sides of her robe ever so slightly. She was nervous, he realized. “Tell me more.”

He was not sure what else to say, marriage was unfamiliar ground for him. “Perhaps I am the fool and the blind man.”

Sansa laughed, Jon thought it a beautiful sound. Relief came over him. He approached her, cupping her neck and along the line of her jaw, letting his thumb stroke her chin. “I would give you Lady, if I could. Seven hells, I’d give you all the wolves if I could. All I can do is tell you I want to be your husband.”

She took a slow breath, he could feel the tension seep from her body. “I want to be your wife.”

Jon kissed her then, tracing the line of her lips with his tongue, tasting the sweet spice of wine she had drunk at supper.

“Jon,” she breathed, so close their lips still touched. “Undress.”

He nodded his head. He pulled off the sword belt he still wore, along with his leather jerkin and tunic. Sansa hesitantly touched his chest before drawing away. His boots came next before the rest of his clothes, until he stood before her, clad only in his nameday suit.

Sansa did not speak, her eyes roaming over his body, studying him. Jon realized she had never seen him undressed before, that one time was not a particularly pleasant memory.

“You’re beautiful.” She spoke quietly, mostly to herself. Sansa stroked his chest, letting her hand fall down his belly to his waist and hip before drawing back up.

Jon touched the tie of her robe, holding the end in one hand, but made no attempt to open it.

“Do it.”

He did as ordered, untying the robe and letting the ends fall away. “Oh, gods,” he whimpered. She wore nothing underneath.

Sansa slid the garment off, letting it fall, pooling at their feet. “It seemed easier,” she explained.

He chuckled. “That’s not the word I would have picked. May I?”

At her nod, Jon matched her earlier movements, touching one breast then the other, stroking her waist and hips. He let his hands move through the red curls between her legs before drawing away, enjoying the quiet hitch of her breath. He kissed and licked one nipple and then other. He kissed between her breasts and higher, following the trail until he met her lips once more.

This kiss was more urgent as desire began to grow within them both. He grasped her hair, pulling her towards him, one hand settling on her hip. He could feel her arms around him, holding his shoulders.

Jon stepped forward, pushing  them both towards her bed. Somehow, they moved together, limbs tangled, mouths joined, as they climbed on and he settled between her legs

“Jon,” she sighed.

“Not yet.” He kissed a path to her lobe, suckling gently. ‘I’m not done kissing you yet.” He drew himself up, sitting back on his knees. “I am a fool, the greatest.”

She hummed, smiling. “Perhaps we can share the title.”

Sansa had a pink flush on her, down her neckline and across her chest. The curls on her cunt were a bright shade of red. “I am truly a lucky man,” he said absently.

He kissed her, pausing to see if she would object. Sansa spread her legs for him, an invitation. He fell between them, spreading her thighs apart with his shoulders. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Jon licked at her, his first touch hesitant in case she resisted. She only gave a surprised moan. He licked again, putting pressure at the bud he knew was hidden away, licking and applying gentle pressure until she arched and began to buck against him. Jon circled her thighs but it made no difference, she moved in a frenzy as the sweetest sounds fell from her lips. He continued until he felt a painful tug in his hair and a kick at his back before she stilled suddenly.

He kissed up her mound, meeting her eyes. “I will do that again, soon.” His beard was soaking. He settled between her legs, grazing her lips with his own.

Sansa drew away. “I taste…”

He kissed her cheek. “Sweet. Exquisite. Delightful.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. “Not the word I would have chosen.”

Jon slid into her, slow and gentle, before stilling. “Exactly the word.” He reached down, pulling one of her legs higher over his hip before repeating the motion with her other leg. He rolled against her, enjoying the hitch of her breath at his motion. They moved together in rhythm, Jon lost himself in the wet heat of her, in the feel of her against him as he pulled in and out.

Sansa’s hands slid down his back to his hips, applying pressure, pushing him, stirring him on. He went faster as he found himself growing close, his pace becoming brutal in its urgency. He could hear the wet slap of their skin and his grunts. Sansa began to keen into his ear, murmuring his name. He moaned as her head fell back on the pillow. He stilled, giving her his seed with a final grunt. Jon collapsed onto her, panting. He could feel her arms and legs circling him, pulling him close.

They lay together, their breath slowing. Jon pulled himself up to kiss along her brow, her cheek, and by her ear before moving off her. Sansa looked at him, questioning. “Lay next to me?” he asked.

He pulled her close to him, so her hair spread across his chest and she looked up at him.

Sansa began to play with the hair’s on his chest. “Will you stay?”

“Gods,” he said, surprised. “I hope to never leave.”

She grinned, pleased with his answer. “Perhaps the gods do listen.”

He looked down at her, considering. “I prayed to them earlier, after you and I….”

“Can I ask what you told them?”

“This, I prayed for this.” He hoped the sincerity of his words were apparent to her. “I meant all I said, I want all we spoke of.”

She smirked “And that you were a fool.”

“And that I was a fool, that too.” He kissed her then, Jon was not yet done that night.

Later, after the candles were out, in the darkest hours of the night, Jon dozed in a lazy slumber. He felt sated, after taking her twice more. His hand stroked her bare hip where it rested against his side. A part of him was tempted to wake her but she needed rest.

“Jon?’ Sansa drowsy, barely awake.

“Mmmm..are you awake?”

“I had a dream.” She pulled away, sitting up next to him. In the dim light, he could barely see her rubbing at her eyes. “Lady, I dreamt I was in Lady. She missed me, Jon.”

“I dream that with Ghost sometimes, I hunt with him.” He pulled at her in darkness. “Lay back down, it is the hour of the wolf, Sansa.”

“Jon, you don’t understand. I have never had that dream before.” She was growing agitated.

He closed his eyes out, briefly slipping into his own dire wolf. Ghost was in the godswood, there was an excitement to him Jon had not felt in a very long time. A queer chill fell over him. “Do you feel her now?”

Outside, the godswood came alive with the sounds of dire wolves for the first time in many years.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I wrote a fic where Jon and Sansa having sex brought all the direwolves back to life.


End file.
